Opinion pieces, travel articles, places and people; lots of poetry; commentary on current events and history and whatever else shows up on the radar. Articles have been numbered (since Sept. 2004). Go n-eiri an t-adh leat.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Chinga su madreyou filthy foreigngringo, step awayfrom my line of sight!!!!!He spat this out in Spanishand this wasmy introductionto foreign correspondenceas the bulletswhacked into the wallsover us and around usbut, thankfully,not quite into us.Got him, he grunted,and so I peeped,quickly, out the window,and said, No, you missed.Bad mistake.He glared at mewith his red-rimmed eyesand when he pointed the rifle at my headI could actually seethe split-second decisionin his eyes, the frown,the little blink,when he decidednot to shoot me.It was then, at that moment, that I understoodthe first principleof eyewitness reporting:report not what you see,report what people tell you.

Well, that was Nicaragua(or was it El Salvador?)back in the Reagan 1980s.I moved on to Lebanonwhere the civil war wasso confusing, even the localscouldn’t tell me what was going down.The US Marines got blastedand everyone looked so damned pleased,as if they’d done it themselves,which everyone hastened to inform methey hadn’t. Big cheesy grins.Therefore nobody was responsible,everyone was totally innocentand it was a total non-eventas the 280 plus bodieswere dug out of the rubble ….

report not what you see,report what people tell you.

My newspaper wanted batheticdetails, like which poor kidcame from Oklahoma.Like who cares!!Maybe people in Oklahoma.My three previous stories had been spikedbecause I had no solid proofapart from the fact that everybodylocal knew exactlywhat had gone down:It was the Iranians.It was the Iranians.It was the Iranians.Got that? Well, it was never printed.The Americans, wisely, withdrew(they could still do that then)after blasting the unoffending coastlinewith volleys of 18 inch shells,murdering a few hundred women and children,shit happens, from the USS New Jersey.Makes sense; it’s kinda hardto swagger awayunless you leave some death behind you.

Now I was beginning to understandthe things I could writeand the other things I couldn’t.The only people who shot at meand quite seriously tried to kill mewere the Israelis: they did thatoh, about 15-20 times, for themit is always a joke, and whenwith distress and piss-streaked trousersI wrote in a white heatabout the last of my narrow escapes,the newspaper yanked the story,told me I was too “emotionally involved”plus the incident had never happenedaccording to Israeli Army Radio.Like, right, sure, get your ass over here,see what these people do, day in day out,But nope, sorry pal, “We have growing concernswith regard to your objectivity, and wouldwish to remind you that this corporationexpects the highest level of professional conduct”These are bullets, man,They blow holes in you.The BBC guys lost their driver last weekbecause some bored little jerks in a tankdecided to blow him up, displayingthe local level of professional conduct.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

On my way home, down through the alley,I nearly tripped over him,stretched out in his trenchcoat:another bad drunk, thinks I,until he grips hard on my ankleand says, Son, do you love Ireland?This was an unexpected question.I suppose I do, sir, says I,now will you let go of me leg, please?Listen to me, son, I haven't long to liveand ye're a good lad, I can tell.I've a thing in my pocket, now,it's a thing I plan to give you ...are ye with me now, me stout gossoon?Would you let go of me leg, sir,says I with the panic rising.I will, says he, with a rasping sigh,but his grip had actually tightened.I have the Naval Plans for the invasion of France(Oh, right, thinks I, this is all we need.)You must take these papers direct to the King!But, sir, says I, we have no king,we are the free and independentand poverty-stricken Irish nation!Ah, so the rumours are true, says he.Indeed, sir, now would you care for an amberlance,sorry, an ambeedance, one of them yokesfor to carry you away? I would not,says he, anything without an honestupstanding horse in front of it, is entirelysuspect, a matter for the gravest concern.Oh, to be sure, says I, but whywill we be invading France? Divil blast ye,son, do you not know a thing about code?Sorry, says I, rubbing on my leg(he'd let go by now), but can you tell me,sir, what has you stretched out in the alley?Haven't I been shot, says he, annoyed,have you no idea what it means to be shot?Well, it would hurt, says I, I suppose. Hurt?says he, it hurts like the bloody blue blazes!I'm sorry for your trouble, can I get home now?Ye cannot! Amn't I just after telling youthat the future of the Empire ......Tis a Republic we are, says I, now,Ahhh Republic me arse, says he,aren't we the same feckin people,the fishermen, the farmers,the gombeen men, the hoors?Well, you have a point, says I.And isn't it dear old Ireland,he says to me, that calls to us,like a lonely stag across the moors?Like a what, sir?Like a stag!! One of them ladswith the horns on top of their heads, like,have ye never read a buik?Oh, but I have, sir, says I.Well, then, ye'll know what I'll say to you next:there's Caitlin, Kathleen ni Houlihan,the personification of our nation,the pure young girl, the virgin bride,the ideal we believe in, as wecount our money and scratch our balls,ye've heard tell of her? Oh, and I have,says I, many a time and oft, here and thereamong the neighbours. Tis been very nice,sir, but I've to go now, I'll be late for me tea.Young man, he roars out of him, I AM Kathleen!!Drunk and shot, sprawled out in the alley,here as ye find me, for a moment, perhaps,there may be some lingering doubt,some slight scintilla, some shadow of disbelief,but I AM her, here before you, the eternalfeminine symbol of Ireland!! So you are,sir, and will I go and call that amberlance?Listen, ye scut, ye hoor's melt, I AM that pale-cheekedlass, with raven hair and lips like blood upon the snow,a knowing child who has sent out men to die!!Not a bother on you, sir, been a great pleasure,had a grand time talking, but I'll be off now so ....Not so fast, me young spalpeen!You will take my message to the Kingas I lie here (gasp) alone and dying.But we have no King, says I.Ahh, but we do, says he.And he whispered a name in my ear.

I carried his message to the man he mentioned.Our country, since then, has become richbeyond all dreams of avarice. The alley,when I went back in the morning, wasn't there,hadn't been there for a century, they told me.